“It’s just that I was hoping to get my casserole dish back. Heather said it was okay to drop by today to pick it up.” I looked as ingratiating and apologetic as I could.
“Oh she did, did she? On the day of her husband’s funeral?” The older woman stared at me sullenly for a long moment before giving a loud sigh. “Okay, come in, come in before you let out all the heat.” She ushered me inside and closed the door with a click just short of a slam. “You can wait here. What does it look like?”
“What?” My gaze kept sliding to the pile of mail. “Oh, it’s white porcelain, a rectangular pan with fluted edges.”
“I was trying to take a nap,” Anna said in an accusing tone as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen. “I forgot what it’s like having a young child around all hours. It takes a lot of energy.”
“It certainly does.” I waited until she’d disappeared around the corner before quickly sorting through the mail. There were dozens of sympathy cards, plus some bills and junk mail in Viktor’s name. I sifted as quickly as I could and there it was—a white envelope addressed to Heather in a familiar-looking typeface with no return address. I grabbed it, but too fast, spilling the pile of mail onto the floor.
“What did you say it looked like?” Viktor’s mother called from the kitchen.
“White porcelain,” I called back, slipping the letter into my pocket and dropping to my knees to frantically scoop the mail off the marble tile.
“There are over a dozen porcelain dishes,” Mrs. Lysenko said. “What’s wrong with those disposable aluminum pans I’d like to know.” She came around the corner carrying my dish just as I got the mail back onto the table.
“Thank you so much,” I said, giving her that absurd, ingratiating smile as I took the pan from her hands. “Again, I’m so sorry to bother you. Please tell Heather I stopped by.”
Anna made a sound suspiciously like a snort. Aware that she might be watching, I didn’t even touch the letter until I’d driven far away from the house, parking along the side of the road next to a wide, fenced field where a beautiful black horse quietly grazed, nuzzling the snow in search of dry winter grass.
George pressed up against the window, eager to get out and play, and then tried to nuzzle me into action. I pushed him gently away and pulled both envelopes from my pocket, comparing Heather’s with mine, before opening hers and finding a duplicate of the letter that had been sent to me. It didn’t get better with rereads. My hands trembled as I folded each back into its envelope and tried to call Heather. It went straight to voice mail. What if the police were tapping her phone? I struggled to keep my voice light. “Just checking in to see how you’re doing. If you feel up to it, we’d love to see you—we’re meeting for a girls-only walk at the Borough Park at four P.M.”
chapter twenty-four
SARAH
The Sewickley Borough Park is a park in the classic sense of the word, a parcel of wooded land dedicated to riding and hiking trails. There’s a single paved road through it that dead-ends at a clearing with a glass-fronted trail box containing a yellowed copy of the park rules posted next to a topographical map and some parking spots. On warm, sunny days, people park all along the sides of the road and enjoy picnics and sunbathing and it’s a favorite spot where dogs can roam off-leash. I was hoping that the cold and the time of day would keep most of the pet owners away, and not just because I don’t really like dogs. We needed a private place to meet and I was glad that I passed only one car as I drove along the road toward the dead end.
There was one car other than Alison’s in the official parking spaces and I didn’t recognize it. As I pulled in a few spots away, tires skidding on gravel, I heard a dog yipping and saw Alison leaning into the backseat of her car struggling to contain George. The other car was empty. As I got out of mine I could hear Alison saying, “Hold on, settle down,” and she didn’t hear me coming as she practically wrestled with her dog to get his leash on. If she let George off-leash he’d disappear into the woods in pursuit of squirrels. Apparently he had some pointer blood and it was just in his nature. Well, it wasn’t in my nature to chase him through a maze of oak, maple, and birch trees.
“Hi there,” I called in greeting, trying not to startle her, but she jumped anyway, whirling around.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t hear you pull in.” She looked pale and frazzled, her blond hair falling out of the neat bun she’d worn at the funeral. George looked far more enthusiastic, large brown eyes wild and even larger tongue dripping slobber. He bounded forward to jump up on me and I stepped back so his paws hit the air instead of my shoulders. “Down, boy!” Alison yelled, yanking on his leash. “George, down!” The dog partially responded, but he couldn’t stop moving, bobbing and weaving around Alison like a manic boxer, before bolting toward the open field, dragging his owner behind him.
I hurried after them, the thermos I’d brought bouncing in the bag hanging from my shoulder. The sun was setting and I shaded my eyes as Alison let George lead us around the snowy clearing. He had his nose down and up, sniffing eagerly at every bench and rock, lifting his leg against the wooden post holding the trail map. I checked my watch; it was just after four P.M. I hoped Julie and Heather would get there soon.
As we walked, I saw a man emerge from one of the trails about a hundred feet away with a German shepherd who was off-leash. The dog tensed as it spotted us, but the man didn’t react, just kept moving forward with the same steady gait along a path parallel to ours but at a distance. He seemed tall, certainly taller than I was, a broad-chested man with dark hair and mirrored sunglasses. His dog diverted, making a beeline for George, while barking like crazy, and the man didn’t say anything, just let him go ahead. I don’t appreciate dog owners who let their animals approach strangers without any attempt to curb them.
“Is he friendly?” Alison called as George, goofy, friendly mutt that he was, practically rolled over in front of the shepherd before some canine pride seemed to kick in and he asserted himself with barking, too. The man didn’t answer, but he changed direction, walking toward his dog. And us.
Alison kept hold of George’s leash, clearly nervous as he and the shepherd engaged in that gross ritual where each dog tries to sniff the other’s rear end. The man stopped a few feet away and stared from the dog to Alison and me and back again.
“Cold out today,” I said, one last stab at friendliness. He made a sound that might have been agreement before addressing the dog in a deep voice. “C’mon, King, let’s go.”
The dog didn’t listen, jumping and growling as he played with George. Alison had let the leash out as far as it would go and George was jerking her arm as he pulled against it, twisting and running around, tail wagging like crazy even while he barked and growled as if he wanted to tear the shepherd apart. I’ll never understand dog behavior. The man was watching; he seemed to be looking us over. “I said let’s go,” he suddenly boomed, making us jump as much as his dog. He reached into a pocket of his jeans and I caught a glint of metal. For a brief, terrible moment I thought he held a gun. I tugged Alison’s arm, stumbling back and pulling her and George back with me, as the man stepped forward and then bent to clip a leash on his dog’s collar.
Alison pulled free from my grip, giving me a What the hell? face as we both heard the sound of an engine and Julie’s car came into view. She pulled into a spot down from mine as King’s owner yanked him toward the parking lot and the mystery car. We hurried toward Julie, careful to stay clear of the man’s car.